


Golden Ei

by IreneADonovan



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Art Thieves, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angry Erik, BAMF Hank, BAMF Raven, Calm Down Erik, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles in a Wheelchair, Charles is an Art Thief, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Issues, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is a Spy, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-12-27 15:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IreneADonovan/pseuds/IreneADonovan
Summary: TheFrom Eroica with Lovefusion (almost) no one asked for. Erik is a spy. Charles is an art thief. Mayhem ensues when their paths cross. Not as much of a screwball comedy as the original, and with a dose of angst.





	1. Erik

**Author's Note:**

> For those who would like a taste of the original manga, I've posted a few images and a character summary [here](http://ireneadonovan-eroica.tumblr.com).
> 
> As the manga is a bit of a James Bond parody, as my story involves a Fabergé egg, and as _Ei_ is "egg" in German, I simply refused to resist this title. :-p
> 
> And many thanks to Fullmetalcarer for nudging me to do this one. <3 <3

_Bonn, West Germany,1985_

Major Erik Lehnsherr, NATO intelligence, was not a happy man. His day was already shaping up to be disastrous, and it wasn't even nine yet.

It began before he had even left for headquarters. He'd been having breakfast with his parents in their ancestral home when his father had started haranguing him about leaving his intelligence work behind and joining the family business. It was his rightful place and his duty, and he needed to settle down, accept his responsibilities, find a wife, start a family.

He already had a duty, he'd protested. He'd sworn to protect the Western world from the threat of Soviet expansion.

His mother had intervened then, before either Erik or his father could get any more wound up. She'd sent Erik to “fetch a fresh pot of coffee.” In reality she'd been giving him the means to escape. Though she did murmur “The wife and children would be nice, though,” as he walked past.

Erik doubted a wife and children were in the cards for him. He'd never had much interest in sex, not even with women, though some had pursued him, and though he had even slept with a couple of them. But then a kiss had made him question everything he'd believed about himself and his sexuality, or lack thereof. A kiss that had sent him fleeing from the man who had been the thorn in his side for five years. The man he hadn't so much as talked to since. Charles Xavier, aka Eroica, one of the world's premier art thieves.

He'd arrived at headquarters even earlier than usual, and the bullpen was nearly deserted. Only Agent F sat at her desk, commanding her workspace like a queen. Cool and remote, the polished blonde was the only agent under his command he couldn't intimidate.

She looked up from the document she was reading, arched one perfectly-plucked brow, and smirked. “The boss wants to see you.”

Erik groaned inwardly. While it surely meant a new mission, which was always good, it also meant dealing with the surly Canadian and his smelly cigars.

He walked over to Section Chief Howlett's office door and knocked.

“Enter.”

Erik opened the door, was greeted by a cloud of noxious smoke. He wrinkled his nose, stepped in.

“Lehnsherr,” Howlett acknowledged in his gruff baritone.

Erik nodded faintly but said nothing.

“We have a problem.”

Erik quirked a brow.

“The egg is in play. Again.”

“Sir?”

“That damned Fabergé egg from six months ago. Cuba. The Russian general. The mission that went sideways thanks to a certain Englishman.”

Eroica. “He didn't make it out with the egg after he got me the microfilm?” That was a surprise. He'd never known Eroica to fail before.

“Evidently not. And now the general is attempting to buy it again, with new contents.”

“And my mission is to stop him.”

Howlett smirked. “Smart boy. And this time we need to make sure Eroica doesn't fuck things up.”

Stopping Eroica was like trying to keep the sun from rising. “And how do you propose I do that?”

“By getting him to steal it for us. He likes you. Use that.”

Erik knew yelling was pointless. But it felt so damned good. “There's no way I'm working with that idiot!” he roared.

“You will if I tell you to. Or it's you who'll be packing for Alaska.”

Erik knew this battle had been lost before it had begun. “Fine. Do we even know where he is right now?”

“London. He's been lying low since Cuba. Not a single theft with his calling card.

Really unusual. “I still think this is a bad idea. Eroica is a loose cannon.”

“And it's your job to keep him from going off.”

**~xXx~**

_Chicago, 1980_

Erik wasn't sure why his contact had wanted to meet at the Art Institute. Bad enough that he'd had to come all the way to Chicago, but to then have to hang around an art museum. Art was a pointless waste of time and space. Erik would much rather spend his time on the shooting range than walk around and look at paintings.

He was staring at a Caravaggio that, according to the title, was supposed to be the resurrection of Christ. To him it just looked like a jumble of bodies with a pair of angel's wings thrown in.

“Caravaggio was known for his use of chiaroscuro, the play of light and dark,” said a voice just over his right shoulder. It was a rich baritone, with an unmistakably English accent. 

“It just looks like a jumble of bodies to me.”

“Notice the light and shadow, how they draw the eye diagonally across the painting.” A small but masculine hand extended past him, gesturing at the painting.

All right. He could see that.

“He's known for his realistic, often tortured images. Fascinating, but I prefer images of a more classic beauty. That's why I had to speak to you.”

Erik spun to face the other man. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Simply that you're a truly handsome man.”

As was the speaker, not that Erik was usually one to notice such things. The other man was half-a-head shorter than Erik, with a mass of wild chestnut curls that tumbled well past his shoulders, wide lapis eyes, and impossibly red lips. He wore a flowing white shirt, dark trousers, and a wide blue sash that matched his eyes instead of a belt.

“And that I'd like to get to know you better.”

An unfamiliar urge stirred in Erik. No. He wasn't. He wouldn't. He couldn't. “Sorry. I'm just here on business,” he muttered curtly as he pushed past the other man.

But he had the uncomfortable feeling he hadn't seen the last of him. 

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

By mid-afternoon Erik stood in front of the house serving as Eroica's current headquarters. It was smaller than he'd expected, but the riotous colors of the plantings that all-but-obscured the façade suited Eroica's flamboyant style.

He stepped up to the door, reached for the bell, hesitated. It might be better not to announce his presence; surprise might give him a razor-thin edge against the maddening Englishman. He slipped his lockpicks from an inner pocket of his jacket and let himself in.

He stepped inside, glanced about. The foyer was simply appointed, more so than he ever would have thought -- he'd expected Eroica to live in a place crammed with priceless _objets d'art_ , though the paintings on the walls were surely stolen masterworks.

He crossed the foyer, crept into a salon that looked a bit more like what he'd imagined, though there was still far less furniture, then he edged up to the doorway at the far end and peered around the jamb.

The room beyond was a sitting room, but rather than antiques, it was furnished in a modern style dominated by a sofa and a pair of armchairs.

Eroica lounged on the sofa, propped up by a tall cushion against the arm. He was clad simply by his standards in one of his flowing white shirts and and a pair of midnight-blue trousers with a faint sheen to them. He wore no shoes, only dark socks.

His sister/assistant Raven sat in one of the armchairs, arms folded across her chest, a scowl on her normally attractive features. “This can't go on,” she said. “We have no income.”

“So sell something.”

“We can't keep selling stuff off. Eventually there'll be nothing left. You need to let me--”

“No, Raven. I can't. Not now. Not yet.”

Raven sighed dramatically as she got to her feet. “Fine. I'll sell those Picassos. You never liked them much anyway.”

“All right.” Eroica's voice sounded resigned.

Raven stalked off, and for a moment Erik feared discovery, but she exited through a doorway to the left of the one he skulked in. 

Eroica slumped back against the cushion. He looked pale and weary and far older than he had just six months ago.

Erik had the sense he was missing something, but he didn't know what. Yet.

**~xXx~**

_Chicago, 1980_

He was staring at the multitude of little dots identified as a Seurat when the man returned. “You'd do better to back up,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Seurat is a pointilist. His images are much clearer when viewed from a distance. Back up another ten feet.”

Erik stepped back, and the picture made much more sense.

“Have you finished your business?”

“No. So leave me alone.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

“I don't believe in fun.”

“How sad.” The man moved in close enough behind him that Erik felt his breath caressing his ear. “I'll have to make sure to show you a good time then.”

“Just go away.”

“I could, but I won't.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Then what will it take to be rid of you?”

The man's hand brushed the sleeve of his jacket. “If I have anything to say about it, you'll never be rid of me.”

The man's flirtatious tone grated on Erik's nerves. “You don't even know me.”

“Oh, darling, that's easy to remedy.” The man's hand slid up to Erik's neck, not quite touching. Even through his hair, Erik could feel its heat.

“I'm NOT interested.” Erik kept his voice low, but the intensity was comparable to one of his better chewing-out-one-of-his-junior-agents shouts.

“You'll change your mind.”

“Never,” Erik declared as he turned and marched off.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

He stepped out of the shadows and walked toward Eroica.

“Erik.” Those lapis eyes regarded him warily. “Who let you in?”

“I let myself in.”

Eroica's laugh was almost bitter. “I doubted Hank would let you in. And Raven would punch you and slam the door.”

Erik was surprised. While he'd never gotten on with Eroica's associates, they'd never been openly hostile.

“So why are you here?” Eroica asked.

“A mission.”

Another brittle laugh. “I should have known.”

“That Russian general, Azazel, is making another play for that Fabergé egg. My boss wants you to steal it for us.”

“Your boss. Not you.”

Erik nodded.

Eroica sighed. “Not that that matters. Even if you were asking on your own behalf, my answer would be the same: I can't help you.”

“You've been chasing me and tormenting me and screwing up my missions for five years, and now you won't help me?”

“I didn't say I wouldn't help you. I said I couldn't help you.”

“There's a difference?”

“In this case, yes.”

“Then tell me why you can't help me.”

Eroica shrugged. “Things change.”

“That's all you have to say? 'Things change?'”

“It is.” Eroica's tone was dismissive, but his body language was not. He shifted restlessly, digging the heels of his hands into the sofa cushion beneath him.

“You don't think I deserve a better explanation than that?”

“You forfeited that right the day you left me on that beach in Cuba.”

“That's harsh.”

“So was abandoning me just before the bullets started flying.” Eroica's voice was calm, cold; his fine features, impassive.

“And just what the hell does Cuba have to do with your not helping me?”

“Everything.”

Eroica always found a way to make him crazy. “Could you be clearer?”

“I could, but I won't.”

Erik threw up his hands. “That's it. I'm done here.”

“Come back when _you_ want to talk to me. When you're ready to face what really happened that day.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“You can't keep running away from me forever.”

As far as Erik was concerned, he could do exactly that. Howlett would be angry, but that was the man's default state. “Goodbye, Eroica.”

“Don't call me that.”

Erik almost missed the whispered “Please.” Almost. He paused in the doorway. “Goodbye, Charles.”

“Goodbye, Erik.”

Erik resumed walking toward the front door.

**~xXx~**

_Chicago, 1980_

The handoff, once it finally took place, went smoothly. An average-looking man in a business suit placed a roll of 35mm film into Erik's hand as they both pretended to study a trio of small paintings in an alcove. The man slipped away as Erik stared intently at the Rubens in front of him.

Erik had just dropped the cartridge into his pocket when the Englishman returned. “Rubens probably didn't paint that, you know.”

It was an image of a _zaftige_ woman in a flowing dress with a headdress reminiscent of a nun's wimple.

“He had a school, and he was known to add a few finishing touches to his students' works then sign his own name to them.” One of those small, sturdy hands indicated a thick smear of paint on the woman's nose. “That was probably done by him.”

“Fascinating,” Erik said dryly.

“It's from him that we get the term 'rubenesque' to describe a full-figured woman.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Don't be that way, darling.”

“I'm not your darling.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.”

“We'll see.” The man squeezed his left ass cheek, then before Erik could act properly scandalized, he was gone.

It was only later, in the Palmer House coffee shop, as he prepared to hand the film off to Agent S, whose blond hair was concealed under a worn Cubs cap, that he found the business card in his pocket. On the front were the words “From Eroica with Love” printed in flowing script over a stylized rose. On the back was a telephone number and the name “Charles” written in a bold yet elegant hand. Erik's instinct was to crumple the card and throw it away, but he returned it to his pocket instead.

Three days later, the Chicago Art Institute was robbed. One of the works taken was the small Rubens. Pinned to the wall in its stead was a card saying “From Eroica with Love.”

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

When Erik reached the foyer, Hank McCoy was waiting for him, blocking the door. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“None of your damned business.”

“If it involves Charles, it's my business.”

“I don't think so.”

Hank stood mulishly in front of the door.

Fine. “NATO wants his help.”

Erik never saw the punch coming, never thought the shy, skinny tech geek had it in him. Turned out the kid had a decent left cross. Erik staggered back, regained his balance, resisted the urges to rub his burning jaw and to flatten the kid. “What the hell was that for?”

“Cuba.”

What the hell was with these people? “Just because your boss fucked up--”

Wham! A right this time, hard enough to knock Erik on his ass. He stared up at the younger man, baffled. “What the fuck?”

The younger man regarded him with a disdain that only grew deeper as his understanding grew. “You don't know. You don't even fucking know.” The curse sounded wrong on Hank's lips. “Your people abandoned us on that beach, and you never even knew.”

Abandoned? What?

“Charles didn't 'fuck up.' He got shot.”

Eroica? Shot?

“He got fucking shot because you ran away and left him.”

Erik scrambled to his feet.

“That's right,” Hank taunted. “Run away again.”

But Erik didn't run in the direction Hank expected.


	2. Raven, Hank

_Cuba, late 1984_

Something was wrong. Raven didn't know what, but she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in her gut. Charles was late to the rendezvous point, and Charles was never late. She'd heard gunfire in the distance, which only fuelled her disquiet.

She peered out from the cover of the trees. She could just see Hank's hiding spot, a hundred yards away, near where their boat was concealed. Her gut grew steadily more insistent, until it trumped protocols and common sense.

She snuck down to Hank's position.

He regarded her warily.

“Something's gone wrong. Charles is way overdue. We need to get to the beach where the meet was taking place.”

Hank shook his head. “What could we do? We're strictly behind-the-scenes.”

“Not today,” Raven insisted. “I'm going, with or without you.”

“Fine.” He followed her as she used the edge of the jungle for cover, concealing herself in the thick foliage as she made her way to the meet site.

The firefight she'd heard had been brief, and the participants had since scattered. The beach was deserted. Raven studied the tableau before her, certain her brother had been here. Might still be here.

She almost missed it, the edge of something brown and glossy all but concealed by a small rise of sand, her mind ready to dismiss it as seaweed. It rippled in the sunlight, waved gently in the faint breeze. Charles' hair. She was sure of it.

She broke cover and ran toward it, heart sinking as she drew closer and saw her brother's still form on the sand. His upper body was twisted sideways, halfway between face-down and on his side, and the the back of his tan catsuit was stained dark with blood.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she dropped to her knees beside him. She brushed a curl from his cheek, pressed her fingers to the side of his throat, let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding when she felt a pulse, rapid and uneven but there.

Her hand went to the bloody stain low on his back, searching for the wound. It was startlingly small, a little to the left of his spine.

Hank dropped to his knees beside her. “Is he alive?”

She nodded. “But we need to get him out of here. Help me move him.”

“Wait,” Hank said with quiet authority.

Raven gaped at him.

“We need to be smart about how we move him,” he continued. “That wound is near his spine. If we aren't careful, he could end up paralyzed.”

Left unsaid, Raven realized, was the possibility the damage was already done.

Hank glanced about. “I have an idea, but I'll need a few things from the boat.”

“Go.”

“First we need need to get some pressure on the wound, enough to at least slow the bleeding. Do you have a handkerchief or something?”

Fuck that. Raven stripped off her shirt and folded it into an untidy pad. Hank blushed and fled.

She kept up a steady stream of reassurances she didn't even know if Charles could hear. He looked so pale, so fragile.

It felt like forever before Hank returned, but at last he did, carrying a blanket, a towel, and several rolls of duct tape. “Put this over the wound,” he directed, handing her the towel.

She placed the towel over the layers of her shirt and reapplied the pressure. Charles moaned softly but otherwise didn't respond.

Hank folded the blanket and draped it over Charles, covering him from his armpits to his knees. Then he turned his attention to a squat date palm a short distance away. He broke off a frond that resembled a broomstick with a nearly-straight handle. Using his foot as a fulcrum, he snapped off the twiggy end, then he repeated the whole process five more times.

He brought them all over to Charles' side, set them down, dropped to his knees. He smoothed the blanket so it lay flush on Charles' body and tucked as much of it as he could under Charles' right side, the one he was lying on. Then he took one of the makeshift splints and taped it to the right of Charles' spine. then he taped a second to the left of his spine, then a third along Charles' side.

He looked up at Raven. “I need you to make sure these stay in place while I roll him onto his back.”

She held the improvised splints while he eased Charles over, then Hank pulled the sides of the blanket taut and layered them over Charles' chest and thighs. He taped the other three splints in place, then he layered strips of tape across Charles' front until blanket and splints all but disappeared under a covering of silvery-grey.

They turned him over, and Hank covered his back the same way. Then they lifted him gently and set off for the boat.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

Raven had just gotten back to the room she'd claimed for her office when she heard raised voices. Hank's and another she didn't recognize for a moment. Then she did, and she saw red. It was a voice she'd never thought she'd hear again, belonging to a man she'd believed would never show his face in this household again.

She stormed toward the front of the house, but by the time she reached the foyer only Hank remained, massaging his knuckles.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“He wanted Charles' help on a mission.”

Raven's blood boiled even hotter. “He's really that cruel?”

Hank shook his head. “He didn't know, Raven. He didn't have a clue, not a fucking clue that Charles had been shot, let alone--” His voice trailed off, leaving unsaid the reality they were all living with.

“Did you tell him?”

“Only that Charles was shot in Cuba, and that only after I decked him twice. I figure the rest is Charles' story to tell, if he wants to.”

Raven cocked a brow. “Twice? I'm impressed.

“He deserved it.”

“Damned straight he did.” Raven held up a hand for a high five, and Hank smacked it.

Raven glanced to where her brother hid from the world. She could already hear Erik's voice, not all that loud for a change, but intense. She headed toward the sound, Hank on her heels, both prepared to intervene if necessary.

**~xXx~**

_Miami, late 1984_

Charles was too still, too pale. He was out of immediate danger but faced a long recovery and the likelihood of more surgeries.

His eyes remained closed, lashes sooty smudges darker even than the bruise-dark circles beneath them. His trademark chestnut curls had been chopped off raggedly just past his shoulders; the lower portions had been hopelessly matted with blood. Hank combed a hand through those shortened locks, making a mental note to bring a brush, then he picked up Charles' limp hand and squeezed it gently.

Those vivid eyes finally fluttered open, though their brilliant blue was clouded by pain and confusion. “Hank?” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “What happened?”

“Cuba. The attempt on the egg went sideways. You were shot.”

“Raven?”

“She's okay. I made her go back to the hotel to get some sleep.”

Hank squeezed his hand again. “Good to have you back, Charles.” He pushed away all of the doctors' warnings, let himself believe his best friend might beat the odds.

Only to have Charles' next words shatter those hopes. “Hank? Why can't I feel my legs?”


	3. Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agent G is the one Eroica character I'm not re-casting with an X-Men character. I like her too much as she is. When I was introduced to Eroica many (many, many) moons ago, the descriptions of G were, essentially, "after dressing in drag for an assignment, G never went back." Also, in the comic G is always referred to as she, so I think an argument could be made that she's actually trans...

_London, 1985_

Charles couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe Erik had the unmitigated gall to waltz in like nothing had happened, like he hadn't abandoned Charles on that beach, left him bleeding on the sand. Left him-- Left him.

At first, Charles had refused to blame him. Had clung to the memory of that kiss. Had believed that the man who had kissed him with such passion just minutes before the bullets had started flying couldn't possibly have deliberately abandoned him. But as days had stretched to weeks and then months with no contact, he had reluctantly reconsidered.

Now Erik was finally here, but only because he wanted something. Charles' help. Help Charles could no longer give him.

So screw him.

No. Scratch that. Charles shook his head at the bitter irony. Once that had been all he'd wanted to do to the dashing Major. Now it was another opportunity lost to him. Probably forever.

Even if the Major were so inclined, which he wasn't. Even if Charles were physically able to, which he wasn't. Even if Erik would want him the way he was now, which Charles doubted.

He gripped the back of the couch with one hand, dug the heel of the other into the seat cushion, trying to find a position that would minimize the pain in his back. It had been little more than a month since the third and hopefully final surgery to stabilize his lower spine, and some days the pain could still level him. Today wasn't one of those days, but the pain was far from nonexistent.

And even though the surgery had been deemed a success, it hadn't changed the prognosis. Charles was unlikely to ever walk again. At best, he might walk with crutches.

And the man who bore at least a little of the responsibility was here to rub his face in that all-too-painful truth. Maybe not deliberately -- Erik had seemed genuinely baffled by his refusal -- but nonetheless.

Raven wished he'd never met Erik. Some days Charles wished that, too. But other days the memory of their too-few meetings sustained him.

**~xXx~**

_Pasadena, California, 1982_

Charles wrinkled his nose as he passed by Rodin's “The Thinker” on his way into the Norton Simon Museum. Not at the sculpture, though it wasn't a particular favorite, but at the noxious atmosphere. The climate was lovely, but the air wasn't fit to breathe.

He took the elevator down to the collection of Degas bronzes, the graceful statuettes of ballerinas that never failed to take his breath away. But regretfully, they weren't his target on this trip. This trip was about pleasure, not business.

He made a mental note to send that delightful Agent G a gift basket for tipping him off to her boss' whereabouts.

He spotted his quarry up ahead, in front of a trio of small bronzes. That ramrod-stiff posture made him stick out like a sore thumb amidst the laid-back Southern Californians.

His suit was tailored to show off that splendid physique to perfection. Those broad shoulders with the softly-waved auburn hair just brushing them. That absurdly narrow waist. Those long, lean legs.

Charles moved in close behind him. “Fancy meeting you here,” he purred.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Erik demanded.

“I'll never tell.” Charles could feel the heat pouring off Erik's body, his every muscle tensed with ire. “And really, you must learn to relax. You're so tense.” He set his hands on Erik's brawny shoulders and kneaded the tight muscles.

For a moment, Erik leaned into his touch. Then he sidestepped and spun to face Charles. “Not in public! _Gott in Himmel!_ ”

“Does that mean you'll let me do it in private?”

Erik's peaches-and-cream complexion had turned ro strawberries-and-beets. “Get away from me, you lunatic,” he snapped.

“For now, my dear Major. For now.” Charles flashed Erik his sunniest smile, though he'd rather have flashed something a bit lower. “I'll be seeing you again.”

“Not if I can help it,” Erik muttered as he stalked off.

Charles turned his attention back to the Degas exhibit as he slipped the Major's wallet into his jacket. The game was on, and he'd just claimed his first piece.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

“Charles?”

Charles had been so lost in memory that he didn't realize Erik had returned until the other man spoke. He looked up, a deer in headlights, unable to run.

“Why didn't you tell me you'd been shot? Why did I have to learn it from Hank. After he punched me. Twice.”

Twice? The lad had really been riled.

“At first I thought you were just avoiding me like you usually did. Then I thought you knew, that you didn't want anything to do with me because I wasn't if any use to you anymore. Then I thought--” Charles sighed. “Hell if I know what I thought.”

Erik glared down at him. “You really believed I would abandon you without a second thought?”

Charles could hear the pain hiding behind Erik's bluster, and strove to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Not at first, but as time went on, it became easier and easier to believe.”

“So tell me how it happened.” Erik spoke more gently now.

“After you took off, I started working my way down the beach toward whereI was meeting Raven and Hank. You had the intel. I had the egg. My part was done. But the Russian general's men, they were twitchy. I think they fired first. I tried to stay low, but I could hear the whine of the bullets streaming past from both directions. Then I felt something almost like a punch, and I fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut.”

Erik's grey-green-blue eyes reflected anger. “Any idea who fired the shot?”

“Us or them? No. Not that it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Erik said. “You deserve justice.”

“What I deserve doesn't matter.

“It should.”

“Why the hell does it matter to you, anyway? It's not like you've ever given a damn about me.”

“I give a damn, Charles.”

“You have a strange way if showing it.”

“You want a demonstration?” Erik seized a double-handful of Charles' shirt and dragged him upward for a kiss.

A split-second of heaven as their lips met, then Charles' legs crumpled and he sank toward the floor.

Erik managed to catch him and get him back on the couch, then he took a step back, gazing down at Charles, horror shining in those pale eyes. “Charles? What the fuck?”


	4. Mostly Erik

_Pasadena, California, 1982_

His wallet was gone. In its place, one of Eroica's calling cards. He'd discovered the theft after returning to his hotel room. Fortunately. Had he realized earlier, it might have proved a distraction during his meet.

A local phone number was printed on the card in Eroica's bold hand. With a sigh, he picked up the handset and dialled.

“Hello, darling.”

“I want my wallet back.”

“Finders keepers.”

“You didn't find it. You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Oh, I will. But I want something in return.”

Erik was afraid to ask. “No kissing. No funny stuff.”

“You're no fun.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Dinner, darling. Tonight. Just the two of us. Do you like Italian?”

Erik sighed. “Fine. Dinner. Nothing more.”

Eroica gave him directions to the restaurant then bid him farewell. Couldn't the man just say goodbye?

Erik slammed the phone down and punched the wall, letting out a string of obscenities in every language he knew.

Damn that man. He was absolutely insufferable.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985 ___

__Erik seized Charles by the shirt and dragged him upwards until their lips met. He'd wanted nothing more since he'd tasted them the last time, there on the beach._ _

__And for a moment it was spectacular as he'd remembered. Then Charles was sagging in his grip, sliding downward, limp as a ragdoll save for the hands that clung to Erik's shoulders. Fear shone bright in those sapphire eyes._ _

__Erik managed to steer Charles to an awkward landing back on the couch. He stared down at Charles in uncomprehending horror, knowing something was terribly wrong but not knowing what. “Charles? What the fuck?”_ _

__Charles wouldn't meet his gaze._ _

__“Charles?”_ _

__“What do you want me to say, Erik?” His words were laced with quiet bitterness._ _

__“The truth,” Erik said softly, sinking to his knees before Charles. “What just happened?”_ _

__“I'm paralyzed, Erik. It's what usually happens when someone gets shot in the spine.”_ _

__No. Not possible. Not Charles. He couldn't be--_ _

__Erik's hands took hold of Charles' unresponsive legs as if he could will them to work. “Why didn't you tell me?”_ _

__“I truly thought you knew.”_ _

__“I hate that you thought so little of me.”_ _

__Charles said nothing for what felt like an eternity. “I've loved you, Erik, for a long time, but you never gave me any reason to think my feelings were reciprocated. Except for one moment of hope. That kiss.”_ _

__Erik hung his head. “And then I ran.”_ _

__“Could you at least tell me why?”_ _

__Erik shrugged. “I was scared. My whole life I've been taught it's wrong to love another man.”_ _

__“And do you?”Charles' voice was a bare whisper._ _

__“Do I what?”_ _

__“Love me?” Those blue, blue eyes were bleak, without real hope._ _

__Erik leaned forward, rested his head on Charles' thighs. “I do. G-d help me, but I do.”_ _

__Charles' sturdy fingers combed through his hair. “So where do we go from here?”_ _

__Erik drank in the touch. It felt too right to be wrong. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I can't stay long. I can't just abandon my duty.” But how would he proceed without Charles. Eroica was an integral part of the mission plan._ _

__Charles sensed where his thoughts had gone. “Take Raven,” he said quietly. “She's every bit as good as me, and she's been after me to let her fill my shoes. Maybe it's time.”_ _

__“Will she even work with me? She must hate my guts.”_ _

__“She'll do it,” Charles said. “If it means proving to me she can take over, she'll do it.”_ _

__“And where does this leave us?”_ _

__“Still figuring it out, I daresay.” Charles' voice was warm, with a ghost of his old flirtatiousness. “Stay the night. We'll talk.”_ _

__“All right.”_ _

____

**~xXx~**

_Pasadena, 1982_

Erik entered the restaurant with trepidation. He feared little, had faced down hardened killers, hostile government agents, and any number of other people trying to kill him, but the thought of having dinner with Charles Xavier made his palms itch.

The thief had been the bane of his existence for more than two years now. Interfering with a number of missions. Interfering with his personnel -- he strongly suspected Agent G of having leaked his current whereabouts to Eroica, but fortunately for her (him!), Erik had no proof. Having the temerity to lay his hands on Erik in public, though he had to admit the massage had felt damned good.

No. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't go there. He just couldn't.

Charles was waiting for him, smiling softly.

Erik wanted to punch that smile off his face. “My wallet,” he growled.

The smile grew infuriatingly cheeky. “Not until after dinner. I want to be sure you stay.”

“You'd better not be using it to pay.”

“Of course not, darling. I'm the one who invited you. Do you think I have that little class?”

“You didn't invite me -- you blackmailed me.”

“Semantics, darling.”

They were shown to a table near a wall, and both he and Eroica moved toward the chair at the back. They glared at each other for a moment before Charles sighed and took the other one. “I suppose there are fewer people I can't trust.”

Undoubtedly.

Dinner was a surprisingly enjoyable affair. Charles proved to be a pleasant companion when he wasn't throwing himself at Erik or screwing up his operations. He was smart and insightful, and it turned out he even played chess.

Even Erik realized it was a pity that circumstances would likely keep them from facing one another across a chessboard.

Once it was time for them to part ways, Erik found himself strangely reluctant to be rid of Eroica. So when the thief proposed a drink and a game of chess back at his hotel, Erik had actually accepted. With the stipulation that Charles keep those talented hands to himself.

Charles had pouted, agreed, then grinned and said he'd just have to make Erik change his mind.

It was going to be a long night.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

“Raven? Hank? Would you please come in here? I know you've been listening.”

Trying to listen, at any rate. Her brother had never raised his voice, and even Erik had barely raised his. Raven glanced over at Hank, who shrugged.

They stepped into her brother's study as one, presenting a united front. Erik looked less than thrilled, and Raven eyed him like something she'd found on the bottom of her shoe. But she wasn't going to slug him. Not until she knew what her brother wanted.

Charles was sprawled awkwardly on the couch, a sharp contrast to the image of normality he usually tried to project. And Erik knelt in front of him, hands resting on Charles' thighs.

So Erik knew now. Charles had told him, and he seemed willing to forgive Erik now.

But Raven wouldn't. Not that quick.

“Raven, Hank,” her brother began, “you know why Erik came here and why that's not possible. But I was hoping I could convince you to do the job in my stead.”

Hank's “No way!” came at the same time as her “Fuck no!”

Charles sighed. “I was afraid of this. Don't say no out of some misguided loyalty to me. If I could do this, I would.”

Raven could see Hank actually beginning to consider the ridiculous proposition. She crossed her arms and glared at Erik.”

“Raven, for the last two months you've been after me to let you go out on your own. Here's your chance.”

“That's dirty pool, big brother.”

“Indeed.”

But he had her, and he knew it. “Fine,” she snapped. “But I'm not being nice to him.”

“I can't force you to be. But do try to be civil.”

“No promises.”

“Good enough.”

“He'll be staying the night. We'll begin preparations in the morning.”

“Whatever.” Raven stalked out.

**~xXx~**

After Raven and Hank left, Erik sat back on his heels and studied Charles. Now that he knew to look for it, he could see the faint lines of strain around his eyes, the tight set of his lips. “You're in pain,” he observed.

Charles nodded and pushed himself a little more upright. “I am.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really. Not directly, anyway.” He shifted a little more. “You could, however, give me a distraction. There's a chess set up on that shelf.”

Erik rose and retrieved it. “Where do you want me to set it up?”

Charles pointed to a small table between two comfortable-looking chairs. “If you don't mind helping me move.”

Erik set the chessboard down on the table. “What do I need to do?”

“One arm under my knees, the other behind my back is what Hank usually does.”

“I won't hurt you?”

“No more than any movement does.”

A disquieting statement. But he did as Charles directed, lifting the smaller man with ease. He'd always been slender, but now he seemed almost frail.

Charles looped his arms around Erik's shoulders and rested his forehead against the side of his neck. Erik could smell his shampoo. Something spicy -- cinnamon, maybe.

He savored the feel of Charles in his arms for just a moment. But it was wrong that the first time he held this man should be under these circumstances. He set Charles in one chair, ran a hand along Charles' wild curls, then took his place on the other side of the table.

Charles stared at him for a moment, sad and pensive, then he glanced away. He leaned forward a little, used his hands to lift his legs and re-position them.

“Why don't you use a wheelchair?” Erik asked quietly.

Charles lifted his head, sapphire eyes blazing. “Because I hate the bloody thing,” he snapped. “It's too much a reminder of what I've lost.” His voice grew softer as he continued. “Sitting here, at home, I can forget, at least for a little while.” He stared moodily at the chessboard -- Erik had given him white -- then made his opening move.

Erik advanced a pawn. “It can't be easy on Raven and Hank.”

“Taking care of me? No, it isn't. Raven stays because she's my sister. I'm not sure why Hank stays.” Charles made another move, lightning-quick, almost reckless.

“You have a third pair oc hands now, if you wan't them.” Erik studied the board and made his next move, slow and deliberate.

“Yours?” Erik supposed he deserved the skepticism in Charles' voice. “What about your mission?” The emphasis on the final word was razor-sharp, almost bitter.

“If walking away from NATO is what it takes to convince you I'm serious, I'll do it.” He would, too. Probably.

But Charles backed off. “I wouldn't ask you to do that,” he said. “It's too much a part of who you are.” Left unsaid was _like being a thief was a part of me_.

“So where does that leave us?” Erik asked.

“I don't know,” Charles said. “I'd like to believe you, but you've pushed me away too many times.” He moved a knight as he spoke.

Erik eyed the board. “I'd like to believe me, too,” he said, “but the idea of this -- us -- still terrifies the hell out of me.”

“Kiss me,” Charles said.

“What?”

“Kiss me,” he repeated, “like you were going to when you grabbed me.”

Erik hesitated, but when he saw the hurt blooming in Charles' eyes, he rose and circled the table. No, the table was too much in his way. He lifted it and moved it aside.

He sank to the floor, knees bracketing Charles' feet, and set his hands on Charles' shoulders, drawing tje smaller man forward until their lips met.

This wasn't the kiss he'd meant to give Charles before. Not even close. That one had been driven by anger and fear and frustration, full of passion but no tenderness. This one was gentle, full of promise.

Charles tasted just as good as he'd remembered, earthy yet almost sweet, reminding him of bitter chocolate, dark as Charles riot of curls, and of raspberries, plump and luscious and as vivid as Charles' lips. Erik woyld have smiled had his mouth not been thoroughly occupied -- only Charles could inspire him to such ridiculously poetic metaphors.

Charles' arms circled his ribcage, crushing their bodies together. Charles always looked so fragile that it was easy to forget hoe strong he was. Even now. Especially now. Erik wasn't sure he could have borne what Charles was having to bear.

Erik buried his hands in the silken mass of Charles' curls, felt the surprising weight. Charles eyes were open, pupils blown wide with desire, surrounded by luminous blue.

This felt right, having Charles in his arms. How they would make it work, he had no idea. But for the first time ever, he was willing to try.


	5. Charles, Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is conflicted and confused (and a little domestic)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had 3/4 of this written for months, but life got in the way...

_Leningrad, July, 1984_

The sky was leaden, the air chill, though it was supposed to clear and warm later. Charles stood on a bridge over the Neva River, surrounded by a crowd of onlookers and a few tourists. It was Navy Day, and the river and canals were teeming with ships (and the occasional submarine), but Charles was finding it incredibly boring.

Erik undoubtedly loved it. Charles didn't know what his cover was on this trip, but he imagined Erik strolling along the bank, playing tourist and actually enjoying himself (for once in his life). Charles knew he was near, and he'd track him down later, after he spent a few hours at The Hermitage. There were several Old Masters that he coveted, several more he knew he could steal and would sell well, and he'd always wanted a Fabergé egg.

As he began to move through the crowd again, he considered picking a few pockets just to keep his skills sharp, but the prospect of a visit to a Soviet prison for nothing more than fifty rubles and a cheap watch stayed his hand. He was a professional, and he was after bigger game.

The crowd parted for a moment, giving Charles a stunning view, and an unexpected one. Erik, leaning over the bridge railing, the soft light setting his auburn hair aflame, his posture uncharacteristically relaxed, dressed casually in a sweater and jeans, a cigarette dangling from the fingers of one hand.

Charles couldn't resist. He stopped beside Erik, adopted the same pose. “Got a light?”

“You don't smoke.” At least he thought that's what Erik had said. Charles' Russian was rather spotty – nasty language, way too many consonants.

“You shouldn't,” he answered softly. He thought he saw a hint of a smile quirk the corners of Erik's mouth upward.

“Maybe so. Now go away before you blow my cover. Again.”

Charles sighed, said nothing, just reached out, snared the cigarette from Erik's fingers, took a drag. It tasted foul, but he managed not to choke.

No, he hadn't imagined that ghost of a smile, or the faint twinkle in those grey-green eyes as Erik reclaimed the cigarette for another puff then held it out to Charles.

They stood there like that, leaning against the concrete rail, passing the cigarette back and forth in silence until it burned low. Erik took a final drag, chucked the butt into the river without a word, then walked away.

Charles didn't watch him go. His eyes were on the cigarette butt as it tumbled toward the water as he wondered if the faint taste of Erik on the paper was the only taste he'd ever get.

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

Erik continued to hold Charles even after their lips parted, and Charles drank in the sensation. For a few glorious moments he could almost forget, could almost push away the world and its harsh realities. Almost.

Erik's stomach rumbled, startling them both.

“When did you last eat?”

“Before I left Bonn,” Erik admitted.

“Then we'd better find you some food. Dinner won't be for a bit yet.”

Erik stood, stretched, studied Charles. “Do I really have to carry you everywhere?”

Charles sighed, considered. “No. No, you don't. Look in that closet.” He pointed to a door at the rear of the room.

Erik crossed to the door, opened it to reveal the wheelchair Charles so loathed. The emblem of a loss of freedom he hadn't known to cherish. But he understood the point Erik had made with his wry question. He couldn't hide forever.

“Bring it over,” Charles said, resigned. “I'll need some help getting into it, though. My back is still healing from the last surgery.”

“Last?” Charles could almost feel the waves of guilt pouring off Erik.

“There've been three.”

Erik lifted Charles from the armchair, placed him carefully in the wheelchair, arranged his legs on the rests. “Will you need more?”

“Doubtful.” Twenty-percent chance, but Charles tried not to think about that.

“So how bad is it?”

Charles understood what Erik wanted to know. “I'm paralyzed from the hips down, and no surgery is going to fix that. It's still possible that I might be able to walk after a fashion, but never easily or unaided.”

Erik hung his head. “I'm sorry, Charles. I should have protected you.”

“Done is done, love.” Charles found, to his surprise, that he meant it.

He wheeled himself into the kitchen, Erik following just behind. Hank was already there, staring moodily into the refrigerator.

“Everything all right, Hank?”

Hank's body snapped upward, and he whirled around. “Charles?” His normally soft, low voice was a startled squeak. He took in Charles, the wheelchair, gave Erik an assessing look, then almost smiled. “Charles,” Hank repeated, regaining his composure. “I wasn't expecting to see you up and about.”

“It was time,” Charles said simply.

And that was enough for Hank, who nodded and asked, “Is there anything you need?”

“Just something to feed Erik. He hasn't eaten since he left Germany.”

There was still a bit of frost in Hank's blue eyes, but it was thawing. “We've got cold cuts, and Raven picked up a loaf of bread and some croissants. I'd stay away from the apples on the counter, though – they're kind of old.”

“All right. Do you need help with dinner?”

Hank sighed. “Not really. I'm just trying to figure out the hundredth way to make stew.” Cooking wasn't really Hank's thing, though he could do it well enough.

“What have you got to work with?” Erik asked.

Charles and Hank both goggled at Erik. “You cook?” Hank blurted.

“Rather well. Let me take a look.”

Hank stepped aside, and Erik surveyed the refrigerator's contents. “I can work with this. Let me make a sandwich first, then I'll get started.” Erik pulled out meat and cheese and mustard, turned toward the counter.

Hank watched with wary amazement. “Who are you, and what have you done with Major Lehnsherr?”

“Still here and ready to kick your ass if I need to,” Erik replied equably as he found a plate and began building his sandwich.

Hank paled visibly.

Erik grinned, showing a lot of teeth. “But only if I need to.”

Hank didn't look reassured.

Charles wheeled toward the table, and Hank hastily pulled a chair out of his way, but Charles paused halfway there. “You said Raven brought croissants?”

“Yes. Do you want me to get you one?”

Charles shook his head. “I can get it.”

Hank glanced away. “You won't be able to reach the plates.”

Charles sighed. “I guess that's something else we'll have to fix. Start a list for me, Hank. Rearrange the cabinets. Remodel a bathroom. Either move my bedroom or figure out a better way to get me upstairs.”

Hank stared at him wide-eyed for just a moment, then he nodded, a grin slowly lighting his face. “Welcome back, Charles.”

“But for now, please get me a plate.”

Hank got a small plate from an upper cupboard and handed it to Charles, then he hurried from the room.

Charles balanced the plate on his lap then turned a little clumsily, looking for the bag of croissants. It was on the counter, he had to really stretch to reach it, and he nearly knocked the plate on the floor on the process. His back threatened to spasm, but he gritted his teeth and snared the bag with two fingers, dragging it close.

From that point, it was easy. He put a croissant on the plate, retrieved a knife, then wheeled back to the table. Erik had already assembled his sandwich and taken the seat across from Charles. Wordlessly, he pushed the butter and the jam into Charles' reach.

They ate in near-silence, watching each other, still uncertain, still wary. There was so much that lay between them, yet a minefield lay before them. Could Erik really come to terms with loving a man? Could Charles come to terms with his new limitations? Could two men so headstrong and fiery find a way to compromise?

Charles could only hope so.

Erik finished his sandwich, washed his plate, began assembling what he needed for dinner. Charles watched raptly, seeing a side of Erik he hadn't seen before.

Erik put a beef roast in a dutch oven to brown, chopped onions, potatoes, celery, carrots, summer squash, and the past-their-prime apples, then he lifted the meat out and set it on a plate and dropped the onions, carrots, and celery into the pot and stirred them around for a few minutes. Finally he returned the meat to the pot along with the other veggies, some herbs and seasonings, and some leftover wine, turned the heat down, and clapped on the lid.

He turned his attention back to Charles. “This needs to simmer for a couple of hours. I need to keep an eye on it, but I thought maybe I could bring the chess set in here and we could continue our match.”

“Do.”

**~xXx~**

_Leningrad, July, 1984_

The crowds gathered for the Navy Day fireworks provided excellent cover for the meet with his contact. Erik stood on the same bridge where he'd encountered Eroica earlier, though not at the railing.

His senses were on high alert – this mission was a risky one, in the heart of Soviet Russia. But there were rumors of a Russian general who had a source in the West, a source with access to a great many Western military secrets. And Erik, who had sources of his own, had come to investigate.

This far north, it was still bright daylight, though it was nearly ten pm, and a couple of times Erik thought he saw sunlight glinting off a mass of chestnut curls. But each time it wasn't Eroica's trademark locks.

 _Stop_ , Erik commanded himself. _You cannot afford to be distracted by thoughts of that mad Englishman._ Yet Erik was having difficulty thinking of anything else. Standing there on this bridge, sharing a cigarette in companionable silence, had reminded him of just how lonely a life he led, made him dream of one day sharing it with someone.

And one traitorous corner of his mind imagined sharing it with Eroica.

_No. I cannot. I will not._

Someone brushed his sleeve. «Товарищ?» (Tovarishch?)

**~xXx~**

_London, 1985_

Erik thought the stew turned out well, but the atmosphere at the dinner table remained frosty. Hank was beginning to warm, but Raven stared at him with icy fury, so it was a relief when the meal ended.

Hank excused himself. Raven didn't bother. Erik's attention remained on Charles, whose sapphire eyes had gradually glazed over with pain and weariness as the meal had progressed. His smile was hesitant as he asked, “Would you take me upstairs?”

Ah. Charles' bedroom. One of the things Charles had said needed to change. “All right.” He wheeled Charles to the foot of the stairs, lifted him from his chair, then ascended. Charles clung tightly to his neck, and Erik would have been lying to himself if he'd denied it felt good.

“First door on the right.”

Erik stepped through the doorway and into a space that, to him, suited Charles perfectly. The flowing cream lace of the bedspread and draperies echoed Charles outrageous shirts and hair. The furniture was antique and ornate. The carpeting was soft under his feet, a deep dusky rose. The walls, a paler version of that hue.

Erik set Charles down on a burgundy armchair, brushed a lock of hair from his cheek. He sank to his knees, rested his hands on Charles' thighs. “I don't know where we go from here,” he admitted.

“Kiss me again,” Charles said, his voice little more than a rough whisper.

Erik almost held back, fear and a lifetime of conditioning nearly too much to overcome, but the uncertainty in Charles' eyes was more than he could bear, so he kissed it away.

When he finally sat back on his heels, those sapphire eyes were shining with hope. “Take me to bed,” Charles said.

Erik froze. He loved Charles, he wanted Charles, but he couldn't overcome his conditioning in the space of a day.

“To sleep, love. Just to sleep.” Charles smiled softly, a little sadly. “It's been a long day for both of us, and much as I would like to have my way with you, even if I thought you were ready for that, it's not going to be so easy for me now.”

The paralysis. “I'm s--”

“Don't you dare say that. Not now. Not tonight.”

Erik nodded, rising to his feet. He lifted Charles, carried him to the bed, set him on the edge, kissed him again.

“Mmn, keep doing that.”

So Erik did, dropping to his knees and taking Charles into his arms.

Some time later, when they finally came apart, Charles said, “Help me lift my legs. I still can't twist too well.”

Erik cradled Charles' limp legs in his hands, swung them around onto the mattress. “You're staying dressed?”

Charles nodded. “I'm far too tired to even think about changing. And I suspect you're still far from ready to see another man naked.”

True. Erik rose, circled the bed, shedding his shoes and his belt and leaving them in front of the nightstand. His wallet and keys went in the nightstand drawer, then he turned out the light, climbed onto the bed, and pulled the covers over both of them.

Charles' hand found his in the dark, enfolded it, a single electric point of contact. “Good night, Erik.”

“Good night, Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Товарищ = comrade


End file.
